The Things War Takes
by Suffering Soldier
Summary: War takes from many people more than they would ever willingly give, abandoning them to continue their lives in the aftermath. Hawke gives his life in the Fade to buy the Inquisitor time, leaving behind a young elven woman who must be brought news of his fate.


Cullen breathed deeply, savoring the sweet, damp air of the woodlands. The forest was a welcome change of scenery over the barren mountain peaks of Skyhold with its dry air and chilling glacial winds.

His mount snorted loudly, its ears twitching at the sound of a hare darting from the trail ahead. Behind the commander a soldier on horseback bore the Inquisition's standard on the end of a staff. Atop the pike, the seeing eye and its sword shined in polished bronze.

Though their route was little more than a rough-hewn dirt path that cut through the undergrowth and hardly two dozen men marched behind the two carts at the rear of the column, Cullen still felt some joy at being in the field again. There was something that seemed to stir in his heart at the smell of freshly-churned earth and the symphony of pounding boots that created it. That wonderful noise was the heartbeat of the Inquisition—the thrumming of faith and resolve that would see Thedas restored.

Perhaps when he returned to Skyhold he'd speak to the Inquisitor about the possibility of leading patrols on occasion. Surely he wasn't needed in the war room every waking moment, and Cassandra and the various other captains and officers could handle the day-to-day operations of the fortress for the few hours he would be away.

As the procession of troops rounded a slight bend in the trail, the undergrowth cleared and Cullen's blissful demeanor perished as the refugee camp came into sight and he was reminded of his mission.

The camp, one of a score in the region, was surrounded by a hastily constructed palisade of sharpened stakes driven with an opening to allow passage inside. Above the jagged picket rose a maze of roofs and tent poles; wretched hovels and lean-tos beside tents whose quilted canvas covers were ragged and bleached by the sun. Every gap and muddy clearing between these squalid shelters teemed with elves, so many that it seemed to Cullen that the encampment's perimeter might swell and burst at their volume. It reminded him more of Kirkwall's alienage than he would've preferred.

When the rebel mages and apostates had been driven into vast Brecilian Forest in the east of Ferelden, the disavowed Templar Order had pursued them. The isolated Dalish clans in the area were shattered by this tide of magic and steel, and those who escaped with their lives fled into the Bannorn. There they were joined by even more elven migrants who taken flight from similarly ravaged villages and farms. Driven away from human towns, they had been left no choice but to settle in the wild far reaches of southern Ferelden.

With a light tug of the reins, the commander brought his horse to a halt a short distance from the gate, all the while under the venomous scrutiny of the two elves that stood guard and the dozen others that peered at the approaching caravan through the slotted picket fence. Freeing himself from his saddle, Cullen dismounted and a retainer quickly appeared to grab his mount's dangling reins and lead it away. Adjusting the leather courier bag that hung across his shoulder, the commander watched his lieutenant—a stern-faced woman with coarse brunette hair that fell across her brow—climb from one of the wagons and approach a tattooed guard who stood with an arrow notched.

In a flurry of gruff statements and gestures thrown back toward the wagons, the Inquisition officer explained herself before waving the cart through the gate and into the camp without so as much a nod from the guard. As he watched the two wagon's rumble by with a number of soldiers behind it, Cullen found himself seized by a sense of uncertainty.

For as long as the two of them had stood on opposite sides of a very deep divide, it had never escaped the templar's notice that he and Hawke were very much alike; two reasonable men caught in Kirkwall as the situation in the city spiraled out of control. Hawke had tried to keep the peace—Maker bless him, he had _tried_. He had pleaded and labored and bled to prevent the spark that in hindsight was inevitable. A mage or not, Hawke was a good man, and Cullen considered himself privileged to have stood alongside him when it had mattered most. Yet if he'd made the choice to aid the Champion earlier instead of blindly following his knight-commander so, _so much _of it all might've been prevented.

"You ready, Curly?" A raspy voice shook the commander from his thoughts. Turning, the Templar found Varric by his side, his signature crossbow slung across his back and an uncharacteristically grave expression on his face.

In truth, he wasn't sure he was. His boots suddenly seemed to weigh him down, and his stomach churned anxiously. Though Cullen and the dwarf rarely saw eye to eye, he was glad he was here. He wasn't sure he could do this alone—almost certain, in fact. "As I can be."

The two entered the camp in silence, and though a crowd clamored around the wagon as Inquisition soldiers distributed supplies, they passed through the sea of migrants and deeper into the camp without undue jostling.

Amidst the mass of bodies, Cullen saw that many of the elves bore the ornate, swirling tattoos of the Dalish, though just as many others' faces were bare. Yet, they all looked the same—gaunt cheeks from too many nights spent hungry, and empty, despairing eyes that had witnessed more hardship in the past weeks than more fortunate souls saw in a lifetime.

The commander felt shamed by their gazes. These were innocent people—homesteaders and farmers who had been driven from their lives by the conflict that was spreading across southern Thedas. All had undoubtedly lost things—their homes, their families. Cullen couldn't help but imagine that these refugees, starved and outcast, would hate him if they truly understood who he was.

How many of their homes had been engulfed as his soldiers drove apostates from the Hinterlands? How many of their families had been murdered by Red Templars made desperate as the Inquisition pressed at their strongholds? Regardless of _why _they fought, it was blood on Cullen's hands just the same, and the fruit of his sins had been reaped and spread out before him.

"You alright, Cullen?"

It might've been the only time the former knight-captain had ever heard Varric refer to him by name.

"These people…"

"I know what you're thinking." The dwarven rogue interjected, "It's not your fault. These people have their lives because of the Inquisition."

"Perhaps." Cullen replied bitterly.

The pair continued deeper into the camp where they found an elf waiting for them. He wore a ragged cloak and the commander noticed the hilt of a dagger sticking from his belt. One of Leliana's people, no doubt. He offered a slight bow of the head to Cullen and indicated with a wave for them to follow.

He led them through a narrow, muddy alley between the ramshackle shelters. For the most part the refugees stared and kept their distance from the strangers, with the exception of an elven child who toddled curiously into their path before being hurriedly scooped up and carried away by its mother.

Cullen didn't blame them for their wariness toward the human who marched through their camp with a sword at his hip. It had been men like him who had done this to them.

The scout suddenly stopped near the doorway of a shack and gestured inside with a sideways jerk of the head.

The commander ducked inside as Varric stuck close behind.

It was a squalled little inhabitance. A piece of tattered, yellow canvas had been stretched across the ceiling to keep the rain out with varying levels of success, and the sickly glow the sunlight cast into the hut did the interior no favors.

Inside the slim figure of an elf bent over a cot that sat against the wall. The woman momentarily cocked her head as the newcomers entered, but returned to helping the refugee lying in the bed drink from the wooden bowl that she held to his lips.

Completing her task, she set the dish aside and retrieved a dark-colored staff from where it leaned against the wall before turning.

Merrill looked older. Her smooth, tattooed face was wrought with exhaustion and her slim hands were stained and dirty. She no longer had the ornate green robes she'd worn in Kirkwall with its long sleeves of finely crafted mail. Instead she wore a ragged olive tunic that was stained in spots with mud. Yet, even in the surroundings of the wretched refugee camp, the young elven woman had retained her luminous, lively glow and lent the humble garment a certain grace.

The elven mage blinked. "Knight-Captain Cullen?"

The aforementioned templar forced a smile as he began to reply, but he suddenly realized he had no idea what to say. Should he be friendly or outright? Was there a gentle way to tell her? Was it even possible for such news to _be _gentle? Perhaps he should apologize. But for what? The intrusion? For Hawke?

Suddenly Merrill squealed in excitement. "Varric!" The dwarf had stepped around the commander as he tried to marshal his words and gave a bashful smile at the greeting.

"It's good to see you too, Daisy."

The statement was sincere enough. The past months had cost the dwarven businessman too many of his friends, and despite the awful circumstances he was glad to see her again. Even back in Kirkwall she had seemed like a fount of hopeful vigor in the slums and back alleys of the city of chains.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were here! I'd have worn something…" Merrill paused a moment to examine her apparel. "…cleaner."

Varric murmured a reply that Cullen didn't hear, and the elf suddenly seemed to take notice of the grim air about them.

"What's wrong? Where's Hawke?" She asked guardedly, her face suddenly wrought with worry. "Is he with you?"

Cullen broke under her gaze. His stern expression fell and he suddenly found himself unable to meet her eyes. He heard Varric quietly curse himself as the dwarf drew a trembling breath.

"Merrill," the rogue began in a husky tone.

Her eyes widened. "No."

The word was uttered in a shaky, pleading gasp.

She clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress a sob, but her emerald eyes glistened in the hut's failing light.

"No!"

Varric's gaze dropped to the muddy floor.

* * *

><p>It was late in the afternoon by the time Cullen found himself at Merrill's hut. It looked markedly studier than most of its neighbors, and had quiet apparently been constructed by someone not unfamiliar with woodworking. Inwardly the commander wondered if the dainty mage had built it herself.<p>

Hours ago, the templar had politely excused himself and left Merrill with Varric. He realized well enough that it was nothing he could help with his presence. He had spent the past several hours overseeing the handful of Inquisition soldiers distributing supplies to the refugees. It was a distraction—a mundane task his officers were more than capable of handling, but work, he had found, was the only thing that could keep his own feeling out of his thought. So long as he _worked_, so long as he toiled for the Inquisition until his very bones ached, then the lives that had been lost weren't in vain. They _couldn't _be.

All afternoon however, the breeze seemed to carry the sound of anguished sobs from a distant part of the camp—or at least he imagined it to.

Varric sat tending a small fire outside the elven woman's hut, poking at the bed of glowing embers as a worn silver kettle simmered among them. He noticed the commander approaching and gave a nod. The dwarf looked tired. In the past hours, he seemed to have shrunk into the recesses of his jacket until it was suddenly too large for him and the mischievous, assured look in his eyes had been replaced by something that Cullen couldn't quite describe.

"How is she?" The templar asked of the dwarf in a hushed tone, hooking his thumbs in his waist in a failed attempt to seem casual.

The rogue scratched at his scalp with a gloved hand, a slow sigh slipping out between his parted lips. "She's been in there a few hours. I brought her something to eat a while ago, but she still hasn't spoken a word."

The commander glanced toward the entrance of the hunt and drew a long breath.

"_Cullen." _Varric halted him before he could take a single step, his tone suddenly sharp. The human turned to find the storyteller staring at him intently. "Daisy's got a good heart, but she's been through a lot. Hawke was all she had left."

The templar gave an understanding nod before meekly heading into the hut. Brushing aside the curtain that hung in the doorway, Cullen poked his head inside.

The interior was dark—the sunlight had been thoroughly closed out and a quick examination of the seamed boards on the walls made the commander realize that the shelter wasn't simply a shanty, but the broken remains of an arravel—stripped of its wheels and sail.

Hidden amongst the shadows, the oak walls were covered in swirling lines of elven script, and an errant beam of sunlight entered with Cullen and illuminated the striking mural of a halla as it stood astride a canyon.

It was a small space, but furnished with only a dank cot and a small desk it seemed empty all the same. The desk, well-made but showing its age, sat against the wall, and by the light of the candle that sat atop it the templar found Merrill stooped over it with her heads in her hands. She didn't acknowledge him as he stepped inside and the curtain fell closed behind.

Before her sat two letters. One, draped with a black tassel and bearing the seal of the Inquisition in red wax, sat untouched beside a cold cup of tea.

Knowing the mage must be aware of him, Cullen's tone was soft and sincere. "I know I'm the last person in the world you want to see right now, and I understand."

The elf didn't stir at his words.

"I don't presume to have been Hawke's friend. He may well have hated me—Maker knows he had reason enough. But I am _not _the same man who stood by and watched Kirkwall burn. I owe that to Hawke."

"You made him happy, you know. In six years, the only time I ever saw him _truly smile _was when he was with you. He was a troubled man. He hid it well, but it's something you learn to recognize in others once you've seen it in yourself. You helped him, though. Through everything that happened I…I think you made his life worth living—I really do. The world is a lesser place for his loss."

Cullen was met only with silence. It was an answer he was all too familiar with. After a long moment he began to turn for the door.

"Thank you." The words, muted as they were, stopped Cullen cold. Merrill had lifted her head from her hands to observe the templar who stood near her doorway. Her eyes were red and inflamed, but what struck the commander was how exhausted she sounded. "I know this can't be easy, but thank you."

Cullen nodded solemnly but said nothing, allowing a heavy silence to fill the room. It was the serene, understanding silence of two people who had both suffered more loss than they could ever bear to remember. Sympathetic company didn't soothe the cold void that loss had burned into each of them, but it quieted the awful gnawing of aloneness that went with it. Even if silence was all he could offer, he owed to her nonetheless.

After a few minutes, Merrill spoke. "Cullen,"

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

The elf's gaze fixed on him, her emerald eyes filled with pain and brimming tears. "How do you do it? How do you just…pretend like it never happened?"

"You learn to cope, to…to live your life again. Like relearning to walk. It _hurts _and its _awful_¸ but it's the only way you can live with yourself." Cullen admitted somberly, his face sinking into a weathered expression of sorrow. "It'll go back to seeming normal at some point, but there'll still be days you close your eyes and see the people you've lost. It's just something you have to make peace with."

Merrill seemed to consider this for a long moment before quickly raising a hand to veil her face as hot tears threatened to flow.

"Thank you, Cullen." The mage offered in a shaky voice. "But I think I should like to be alone just now."

The commander said nothing, but gave a low, graceful bow before departing in silence.

Varric was by the fire when Cullen emerged from the hut. This time however, the dwarf had no greeting for him. He simply sat with his back to the templar, staring intently into the heart of the crackling fire.

Cullen quietly joined him, and for a time the two stood together in silence.

"Daisy's a blood mage." Varric murmured at last, his gaze not leaving the fire. "Or she was, at least. Had an old elven artifact that she thought would restore her people. Hawke hated it. Every time she brought it up, they would just _argue_. For the longest time, I just thought it was because Hawke hated blood magic. Eventually, she destroyed it. When the two of them got together I finally understood why Hawke had fought with her over it for all those years. He had seen too many decent people walk down dark roads with noble intentions, and he wouldn't allow the same thing to happen to Merrill—even if that meant she hated him for it."

The rogue shook his head sadly. "Hawke was a good man. He deserved better."

"The men who deserve happy lives rarely seem to lead them." Cullen offered softly.

"I won't disagree with that."

There was a moment's pause before the commander spoke again. "Varric?"

"Hmm?"

"Merrill…she had a second letter."

The dwarf gave a slight nod. "It was from Hawke. He asked me to deliver it to Daisy 'in case'." He gave a mournful sigh. "Never thought I'd have to deliver it."

Cullen wasn't sure how long they stood there, simply listening to the bustle of the camp in the background and watching the fire burning itself down. It must've been at least an hour before he heard the heavy step of boots approaching.

"Commander," Cullen glanced up to find his lieutenant with her helmet tucked beneath one arm and her hair matted with dried sweat. "The supplies have been taken care of and the men are gathered outside the camp. We'll march for Skyhold at your order."

"Very well." The general replied, stiffly rising to his feet. "Make sure the men are prepared, we'll have to set out quickly if we want to reach camp before nightfall." The soldier offered him a brisk salute before disappearing.

Stretching his aching legs, Cullen surveyed the camp one last time. In a day's time he'd be back at Skyhold in the war room as if he'd never left. But he'd be here as well, watching Merrill mourn another good man this war had stolen. He'd be at the Circle on Lake Calenhad and in Kirkwall and in the thousand other places where wives and fathers cursed his name as they buried their husbands and sons. War, for all the poetry written and statues erected in its glory, was a game. And it took something from every man who played.


End file.
